1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

Theodore and Bernie bypassed Georgetown entirely, driving straight to the Fifth Precinct to find Detective Ross.

The afternoon shadows stretched long across the precinct steps, and Bernie hoped Ross might provide some protection for their mysterious caller, a thin thread of hope in an increasingly tangled case.

Detective Ross listened to their investigation with the patience of a man accustomed to bad news, but when Bernie voiced his suspicion that "Hayes and Detective Coleman might both be involved," Ross's face went rigid.

"You're talking about a decorated officer," Ross said, his voice tight.

He rattled off a litany of commendations Coleman had received, then physically led them deeper into the station to Coleman's desk, as if the accumulated detritus of a police career could speak to character.

Ross clearly hadn't finished assuming Coleman's caseload.

Files towered precariously on every available surface, including desks, chairs, and even the eaves, spilling onto the adjacent detective's workspace.

The chaos spoke of a man overwhelmed, trying to fill shoes that perhaps had walked darker paths than anyone suspected.

"Look, Coleman had his problems," Ross admitted, gesturing vaguely at the paper mountains.

"He looked down on colored folks, treated them rough. He half-assed his way through cases in certain neighborhoods. But murder?"

He shook his head. "Man's been on the force fifteen years. He knew where the lines were drawn."

Theodore opened his mouth to explain that experience and corruption weren't mutually exclusive, but Bernie's warning glance cut him off.

The last thing they needed was Theodore's occasionally startling insights spooking their only ally in the precinct.

"What about your investigation?" Bernie asked, steering the conversation to safer ground.

Ross fell silent, then extracted a dog-eared notebook from the chaos. The patrol duty log for Coleman's beat, its pages yellowed with coffee stains and wear from handling.

"Coleman was on duty the night it happened," Ross confirmed, flipping through entries. "Right here in black and white."

Bernie leaned forward. "Where was his partner?"

Ross nodded toward the cluttered desk he'd largely commandeered. "Still home. A bullet caught him in the spine during a street altercation three weeks back. Won't ever walk again."

Bernie's hand found Ross's shoulder, a brief gesture of sympathy between cops who understood the arbitrary cruelty of the job.

Ross glanced at Theodore, perhaps measuring how much to reveal to a civilian. "I talked to the detectives who responded that night.

The scene was exactly like in those photographs you showed me."

Bernie retrieved the crime scene photos from his jacket and spread them across the only clear section of the desk. Ross examined them with professional detachment until he found the image of Clarence Earl.

"Four, maybe five shots to the chest," he noted. "Overkill."

"Was Mabel Earl already down when they arrived?" Theodore asked.

Ross nodded grimly.

"And Coleman was first on scene?"

Another nod. Theodore's eyes drifted to the duty log, where both Coleman's signature and his partner's were clearly visible in the same hand, Coleman's.

Ross followed his gaze and tucked the log away. "Partner had an emergency at home that night."

Theodore asked about how Coleman died, and Ross explained the details with weary familiarity. Street fight, two gangs, stray bullet.

When backup arrived, Coleman's partner was holding the body against a patrol car's front tire, both men covered in blood and shadow.

"Does Hayes have gang connections?" Theodore pressed, remembering Bernie's earlier analysis.

"Hayes runs the most disciplined outfit in my precinct," Ross replied without hesitation. He outlined the criminal ecosystem within their jurisdiction, dozens of crews living off smuggling, extortion, robbery, and worse.

"Hayes stays clear of the rough stuff. Man's got a head for business."

Ross explained Hayes's approach: negotiate first, fight only when cornered. He preferred permission to confrontation when entering rival territory.

Bernie thought of the legitimate storefronts flanking Hayes's real estate office.

"What kind of businesses? The bakery? The grocery store?"

Ross eyed Bernie suspiciously. "If they stuck to selling bread and milk, they wouldn't be much of a gang, would they? The main business is lending money. The rest, real estate, retail, pawn shops, that's Hayes trying to go legitimate."

Bernie exhaled in relief. His worldview remained intact; criminals were still criminals, even the ambitious ones.

"Hayes loves playing real estate baron," Ross continued. "Everyone knows to find him at that rundown office on Anacostia Road."

Theodore tried to elicit more details about Hayes, but Ross's knowledge proved to be limited.

By eight that evening, they were walking down the precinct steps together, the detective's cooperation a marked improvement from their frosty reception at noon.

Bernie extracted repeated promises that Ross would ensure their caller's safety before they parted ways.

The next morning brought a summons to Supervisor Rosen's office.

The Investigation Department occupied prime real estate on the third floor, its windows offering views of the Potomac that Rosen rarely seemed to notice.

After listening to Bernie's report of their progress, Rosen delivered what felt like a punishment.

"You two will submit daily work summaries," he announced, pointing at them in turn. "One report, both signatures."

Bernie sensed malevolence behind the bureaucratic requirement but kept his expression neutral.

"You requested access to St. Elizabeth's Hospital yesterday?" Rosen's tone suggested the request had been noted and filed under 'problematic.'

"Hattie Earl's body was transported there," Bernie explained carefully. "If they're conducting the autopsy, we'd like the report. Same as we received for Mabel Earl."

Rosen nodded curtly, then steered back to the heart of the matter. "What do you think? Hayes and Coleman, are they our killers?"

Bernie glanced at Theodore, who had that particular stillness that preceded his reconstructions.

Bernie thought they were, but Theodore's analysis would carry more weight.

"This was an escalating crime," Theodore began, his voice taking on the cadence of certainty.

"Planned as intimidation, spiraling into uncontrolled violence. At least two perpetrators, one armed with a .38 caliber handgun."

He outlined the sequence: breaking into the Earl's home in the evening, gathering the family in the living room for what should have been a controlled conversation. But something went wrong.

"The perpetrators knew the Earls," Theodore continued. "This wasn't random. They talked first, and negotiated. But when negotiations failed, one of them tried to assault Hattie Earl."

The girl's resistance triggered the violence that followed, her death by strangulation, then the shooting of her parents as the situation careened beyond control.

Rosen interrupted. "Why Hattie first? Then Clarence?"

Theodore's gaze found Bernie's notebook, where his partner was frantically scribbling. Bernie didn't look up, missing Theodore's silent request for support.

"Hayes selects his tenants carefully," Theodore said after a pause.

He continued, "Families with children. Families that value stability, that will endure harassment rather than fight back and risk retaliation."

Rosen shifted in his chair, uncomfortable without knowing why.

Theodore continued in plainer language: "The Earl's parents would have tolerated a lot to protect their daughter. Threats, intimidation, even physical abuse, they'd have endured it all. But watching their child die?"

He shook his head. "That breaks the psychological contract. That's when desperate people become dangerous."

"Hattie Earl died behind the sofa, her clothing torn. If either parent had died first, she wouldn't have been moved, wouldn't have been assaulted. Her death was the trigger, not the result."

Theodore painted the scene methodically: Hattie's murder as an accident that shattered the perpetrators' control. Clarence Earl was shot multiple times in an emotional frenzy.

Mabel Earl was restrained during the interval between killings, her forearm fractured in the struggle, until the perpetrators decided she too had to die.

"The caller heard them arguing in the street afterward," Theodore concluded. "The armed man blaming his partner for losing control."

Supervisor Rosen felt thoughts rising unbidden in his mind, contradictions, skepticism, the same uncomfortable sensation he'd experienced during Ronald's briefings the previous week.

Theodore's analysis felt like elaborate guesswork, too many logical leaps bridged by intuition.

"Why do you think that?" Rosen asked bluntly.

Theodore hesitated. He'd explained as clearly as he could manage without delving into criminal psychology theory that wouldn't exist for another decade.

How could he make 1960s minds understand behavioral analysis that hadn't been invented yet?

Before Theodore could respond, Rosen turned to Bernie.

"Theodore says it's a learnable skill," Bernie offered, closing his notebook. "Something that can be mastered with study."

Rosen's skepticism was palpable. This felt less like methodology than mysticism, some innate ability Theodore possessed but couldn't properly explain. He waved them away before his doubts could find voice.

After they left, Rosen contacted the CIA for Hattie Earl's detailed autopsy report, then walked to the Chief's office. St. Elizabeth's Hospital required special clearance for good reason.

It served as one of the Agency's research facilities, conducting studies that regular civilians shouldn't witness.

Outside the Director's office, Bernie voiced the question that had been nagging him since Theodore's reconstruction.

"Why would Hayes want to kill the Earl family in the first place?"

Theodore had no ready answer, but the image of Hayes's document-stuffed office lingered in his mind.

"How many properties do you think Hayes actually owns?"

Bernie frowned, not following the connection.

"If all those file cabinets contain rental contracts," Theodore explained.

"Hayes would own enough real estate to leave the Southeast District behind. He could afford that Northwestern elite lifestyle he seems to covet."

But Hayes remained in his shabby office, playing the role of real estate agent to frightened tenants.

The contradiction suggested that those documents contained something other than legitimate rental agreements.

"We need to examine those files," Theodore concluded.

Their next stop was the FBI's Legal Department, where a sharp-eyed lawyer listened to their request with growing amusement.

He studied Theodore with particular interest, seeming on the verge of asking if his full name might be 'Theodore Dickson Hoover,' but ultimately restrained himself.

"That's an illegal agency run by a colored man," the lawyer said dismissively. "You can use any excuse to raid it."

His advice was brutally practical: contact the Fifth Precinct, invoke FBI authority, demand the documents be seized and delivered to headquarters.

The lawyer demonstrated this by placing the call himself, identifying his department, stating the requirement, and demanding afternoon delivery, then hanging up with bureaucratic efficiency.

"Fifth Precinct's more responsive than the Sixth," he noted, checking his watch. "You'll have those files by the end of business today."

Walking back through headquarters corridors, Bernie broke their contemplative silence.

"We've been wasting time."

The lawyer's casual exercise of federal authority had crystallized something Bernie had been sensing since their arrival at the Bureau.

He thought of Ronald's methods, the resources at his disposal, the deference shown to FBI credentials.

"We're still investigating like small-town cops."

Bernie continued. "When we wanted information from Mrs. Freeman, the caller, Hayes, we could have had the Fifth Precinct bring them here. Instead of sneaking around with Detective Ross, we should have been making official demands."

Theodore considered this, recognizing the truth.

Their investigative instincts were shaped by Felton's limitations, where they'd learned to work around obstacles rather than bulldoze through them.

But the FBI operated differently. As Ronald had noted, their resources were incomparable to any local department.

Understanding this shift, they revised their approach entirely.

Bernie contacted the Fifth Precinct's Deputy Chief, officially notifying him that the FBI was reopening the Earl family investigation.

The Deputy Chief's discomfort was audible across the phone line, nervous laughter, attempts to delegate the matter to Detective Ross, suggestions that private cooperation might avoid bureaucratic complications.

Bernie wasn't interested in accommodation.

A federal-local law enforcement cooperation order would arrive soon; this call was a professional courtesy, nothing more.

The Deputy Chief fell silent, then asked if the case might be resolved through unofficial channels. Going through proper procedures generated so much paperwork, he complained.

Bernie declined politely but firmly.

After hanging up, Bernie returned to the Legal Department for guidance on proper procedure.

The lawyer who'd helped them earlier walked him through the process: case reopening applications, departmental approvals, cooperation orders flowing from FBI headquarters through the Department of Justice's regional office to D.C. Police Headquarters, then down to the Fifth Precinct.

The precinct chief would sign a cooperation confirmation, agreeing to provide archives, personnel, and facility support. Only then could Theodore and Bernie demand formal assistance.

The entire process would consume at least a week.

"But it's necessary," Bernie insisted when Theodore questioned the delay. "We need to do this right."

Supervisor Rosen had just returned from the Chief's office when Bernie appeared with the reopening application. His surprise was evident; he'd assumed these two preferred working around bureaucracy, not embracing it.

Rosen scanned the form, signed without comment, and watched Bernie leave. Then he picked up his phone and dialed the chief of the Fifth Precinct's direct line.

He was genuinely curious what the precinct's leadership thought of this development.

[End of Chapter]

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Hey guys, how's it going there? Hmm, hope it's fine.

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